


Granada

by XYDamianKane



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, DCU
Genre: Age Difference, Caretaking, Flowers, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Mythology References, Power Dynamics, Romance, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21712651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XYDamianKane/pseuds/XYDamianKane
Summary: Bruce still wants to be able to show Terry something beautiful (or even serviceable) and that desire sticks in his chest, even more sharply than his own shame.
Relationships: Terry McGinnis/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	Granada

**Author's Note:**

> Granada is Spanish for pomegranate and grenade. It is also a beautiful city in the south of Spain. So it goes.

Terry’s job title isn’t _just_ a convenient lie. 

He drove out here--over the bridge, all the way along the cliffside-- on a Sunday morning with takeout because he has an intuitive knack for this. He never makes Bruce ask for help, he just does what needs to be done.

Today, it’s lunch.

Terry lets him know that he’s set their two places, side by side at the kitchen island. 

Bruce settles into his chair and sticks his cane to the magnetic strip on the side before he notices the small explosion of purple flowers--clustered on a thin vine, arranged artlessly in a water glass--Terry has set between them, by the salt and pepper.

That’s new.

“I found this bush that had taken over one of the trellises out back. There seemed to be a lot of them and I thought, hey, why not?”

Bruce mutters, “You’re lucky neither of us appear to be allergic.” 

Bruce didn’t realize it had been so long since they had the morning glories cleared completely. It was for Tim’s wedding, who found out the hard way that he was, in fact, allergic.

“Oh. I didn’t know--”

“It’s fine. They are...nice, even if they’re allegedly invasive.”

“You’re welcome, I guess. Well, I got to choose last time; do you want noodles or curry?”

* * *

Whenever Bruce’s pride is particularly sore, like today, Terry picks up on it. More often than not, it’s even before Bruce snaps at him. He’ll slip out in the gardens-- or what’s left of them--while Bruce feels guilty and cools off.

The sky is unusually clear, and so the light is an unfamiliar pale gold of a late spring afternoon somewhere nicer.

Terry is balancing between the branches of one of the mulberry trees this time. There’s a gap in the new green leaves, and Bruce can see his beat-up sneakers dangle, the hem of his jeans.

“You only need one limb available to make your move, keep three on the tree if you can,” he calls from the porch.

“Got it!” Terry shouts back. One foot finds a limb to rest on.

“Is this what you’re always up to out here?” Bruce crosses his arms. He sounds just like Clark’s mother and it nearly makes him laugh.

Terry climbs down a bit and jumps the rest of the way, landing softly on his feet in the tall weeds below. He walks closer, probably so Bruce can hear him.

“I’m just looking, I guess. I..don’t think I’ve ever seen this much green in one place, you know?” He puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Bruce frowns.

“Didn’t your mother ever take you boys to Robinson Park?”

Terry tilts his head.

“...where the mall used to be?”

Bruce hadn’t realized. His feelings simmer uncomfortably in his chest.

He remembers, again, that the city he protected was not this city as it is, but another place, called Gotham by coincidence.

Mostly, he wants to apologize for how overgrown everything is. He’s justified keeping it this way for so long is because it feeds into his cover, right? Just an old man who can’t take care of himself or his property. 

But that’s just the truth, isn’t it?

He still wants to be able to show Terry something beautiful (or even serviceable) and that desire sticks in his chest, even more sharply than his own shame.

_Terry--_

Terry is looking over the property, where it dips down to the cliffside, and saying something.

“I did actually pay attention during our land-use unit in environmental science--have you thought about hiring a permaculture specialist? Or getting some goats? Something to make this all more, you know, low maintenance?”

“I guess not. I donated most of the grounds that wouldn’t be a security risk to the conservation trust.” 

“Oh, do you know Ms. Isley? She came to speak at school a few times.” 

“You could say that. Would you want to see the greenhouse they built? I still haven’t been down there.” Bruce doesn’t know what makes him ask and his tone is revoltingly polite. It’s like he’s possessed. 

Terry doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure, boss,” he grins. “You know, it’s almost weird that I haven’t run into some plant-themed bad guy with the schticks people come up with around here.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.”

* * *

They walk down after hours. The last traces of sunlight are still out, so it’s not dark enough for Terry to go to work, yet. The air in the greenhouse is hazy with heat and humidity. Bruce shrugs out of his wool coat, and really feels warm for the first time in a while. Terry takes it and drapes it over his arm automatically.

The ceilings are higher than he remembers, and the first thing they see is the Gotham Poppy display Pamela insisted on, its bright red-and-black flowers arranged in overlapping hydroponic vials all the way up the wall. The effect is pretty impressive, he’ll admit.

Terry goes to read the plaque, uncharacteristically quiet. He hasn’t said more than two words to Bruce since they stepped inside.

His head is tipped back a little, eyes wide as he drinks it the wall of flowers. He worries his lip with his teeth absently, and Bruce can’t look away. 

Bruce perceives it--understands it-- all over again, feeling Terry’s warm and open wonderment in his own body. His brain refuses to stop circling around the word _beautiful_ , so Bruce is going to accept that conclusion for now and flagellate himself about it later, when he’s alone with his dog and the bats in the underground cave where he spends most of his time.

They wander counter-clockwise through the rooms, between the trees and artfully arranged stones and the bright-blooming perennials. Terry reads every plaque, and Bruce reads Terry’s nervousness minutes before he clumsily tries to corner Bruce against a marble bench. 

“What are you doing?”

“Will you sit with me?”

They’re across from an artificial pond with a waterfall, surrounded by orchids and ferns that apparently are the most direct descendants of the ones found in some of the area’s prehistoric biomes.

Terry takes his cane once he’s settled and tucks it behind their feet.

There’s nowhere to hide in the artificial sunlight, so Bruce keeps his eyes focused on the water and his back very straight. 

Terry’s hand is warm and its weight is gentle where it settles on his thigh. 

Bruce doesn’t object, until Terry tries to slide it up into his lap, well beyond any zone of plausible deniability.

He grabs Terry’s wrist to stop him.

Bruce looks over. Terry looks like he’s been struck.

“I’m--I’m sorry--I thought--”

They are frozen like that. Bruce relaxes his grip a little when he realizes he’s squeezing.

 _You don’t want this,_ Bruce thinks, but the words catch in his throat.

An alarm from Terry’s watch splits the silence.

“You better get going. I can walk myself.”

* * *

It’s the early morning. Their silence is uneasy, broken only by the hollow non-sound of wind in the cave and the occasional distant flutter of wings. Has the air always been this cold and stale down here?

Terry is stripped down to his boxer briefs, shivering and stitching up a minor gash in his thigh when Bruce says it.

“I’m proud of you.”

Terry slips and stabs himself in his shock. His face melts back into unease.

“Is this about--is something wrong?” 

Bruce deserves that. He presses on.

“No. You were fine. You never owed as much to this city as I did. Once I wore myself out with my own problems...I saw the sorry state of things more clearly. Part of me felt like I could counteract that by being Batman.”

Christ, the words sound even worse out loud.

Terry is waiting for him to continue.

“You didn’t do any of that--and you still throw yourself into the thick of it every night.”

Bruce knows he can’t make Terry do anything he doesn’t want to do. It strikes him then how much he actually admires Terry.

He manages to keep that, at least, to himself.

Terry is quiet, but the look that always crosses his face before he makes a dumb joke is absent, so that’s promising.

“Thank you. I think. But we all owe something to each other.” 

Terry pulls the needle out of where he had stuck it in his leg and a breath hisses out of his mouth.

“And I couldn’t have done this without you.”

All Bruce’s arguments abandon him.

Terry ties the stitches off, gets dressed, and they walk upstairs together.

The sky is a glorious pink where the new sunlight hits the pollution.

There’s still a gap in Bruce's mind between the knowledge the smog is thick enough to drink and the feeling of struck by the sunrise whenever he’s awake to see it.

* * *

Bruce feels up to making them dinner that night. The word _dinner_ seems like a stretch to describe grilled cheese and soup but it’s food, he made it, and there were no casualties.

There are three glasses on the counter when he looks back: Bruce’s iced tea, Terry’s soda, and one stuffed full of red carnations.

* * *

Judging by the silver-edged shadows, Bruce wakes up around two in the morning.

He hears something in the kitchen. Terry _is_ better at being quiet now, Bruce is just the world’s lightest sleeper. 

The cane is for show until it isn’t. The sounds it taps out on the hardwood must signal his approach, because Terry greets him gently, sight unseen: “Hey, Bruce.”

They always seem to end up here, in the one part of the house Bruce has let change with the times.

Terry’s face is thin and tired but he’s smiling, seemingly unaware.

He’s in the ratty band tour t-shirt and boxers he keeps here instead the nice pajamas Bruce bought him. The light around him is warm and flickers slightly because he’s lit one of the deep green cedar-scented candles Barbara ships to Bruce for Christmas every year instead of turning on the lights like a normal person.

Terry has a matchbook, a pomegranate, and a knife set out on an ancient wooden cutting board. Bruce thinks of still life practice, a hundred years ago, at school.

Come to think of it, he’s not sure where Terry would have gotten this. Stores really only sell pomegranates for the holidays around here, and it’s still warm out.

He watches Terry score the skin of it with the knife, like he’s dissecting something in the lab. He puts it down and pushes his thumbs into the top.

He splits it open with long, bare fingers. 

Terry’s pale eyes finally catch his in the dark. His fingers are still buried in the fruit, already stained a little purple-red. 

“Can’t sleep, old man?” Terry looks back down and pulls the fruit apart. Bruce can’t look away. It splays out in segments.

“You can turn the lights on. I can afford the electric bill.”

Terry picks at the browning, bitter pith and pulls some seeds, one at a time, placing them each in his palm. Half-a-dozen first, then half-a-dozen more. They glisten like ruby chips or bloody teeth.

“You, of all people, should know my eyes are used to the dark.” Terry grins and pops the seeds in his hand into his mouth. 

Bruce makes his way around the kitchen island with half a mind to wipe the red from Terry’s mouth or to snuff out the candle, Terry beats him to the punch.

Terry perches on the counter and leans up to kiss him first.

Bruce’s cane clatters to the ground, and they are both too well-trained to jump at the noise.

His mouth is soft and eager--and he’s so young. 

God, Bruce has watched him--Bruce has _seen_ him practice with his classmates in closets, locker rooms, and clubs and it shows.

Bruce can’t remember if he’s ever tasted something this good. Even the bitterness there makes him want more.

The kitchen is quiet but for the soft sounds they make together. Bruce remembers being good at this, once, and muscle memory carries him through it. 

Bruce only knows he is not dreaming because his hands are still old man’s hands when he pulls back and looks at them. 

“Bed?”

“What, are you tired?”

“I mean, generally, yeah, but I--” Terry realizes Bruce is joking halfway through the sentence.

“I find I usually sleep better after I cum.”

Bruce remembers himself.

“Smooth as ever, McGinnis. Let’s see what we can do about that,” he growls.

He can tell that the timbre of his voice is what makes Terry flush, and that’s more flattering than anything he could say.

They make their way to Bruce’s room.

Terry turns on the Tiffany lamp, and the the shock of light is gentled by its color.

They undress each other, shaded in green and blue.

Terry piles some pillows at the headboard for Bruce, and he’s already hard.

_Teenagers._

He looks Bruce over and breathes out, “Oh, fuck.” He lets Bruce settle back into the pillows and lightly straddles his thighs.

Bruce isn’t sure what to say. He hasn’t had to have particular conversation in a while, sue him.

“How can I make you feel good? What’s OK?”

Bruce’s eyes roll up to look at the ceiling. He can’t look Terry in the eyes, much less watch him touch himself.

“Don’t touch the scars. If you want to put anything in me, lube would be great,” he grits out.

“Where do you keep it--wait, can I fuck you?”

Bruce bites back the urge to say _I don’t know, can you?_ and nods, the motion tight and stiff.

He pulls open the nightstand drawer without looking and fishes around for the bottle.

“Do you have condoms in there?”

“No. Why wouldn’t _you_? Don’t your--”

“I’m not seeing anyone right now. I am, uh, clean.”

Bruce knew already, but hearing it out loud is nice.

“Go ahead, then.”

Terry drizzles lube over two fingers, and kind of finger-paints Bruce’s folds with it before pushing one inside. Bruce has to consciously relax the relevant muscles. Terry slips in another finger and moves his other hand to touch himself. He’s rubbing Bruce’s walls, and he’s clever enough to crook his fingers up and rub there, too. Bruce sighs with the feeling. 

And then Terry is moving, crawling over him, positioning himself. He uses the head of his dick to rub at Bruce’s clit, and he’s pushing inside him. The head pops in first, and he eases his way inside, again and again, a bit at a time, and the drag of it is too slow, too gentle.

“Terry, I’m not going to break.”

“I know, ha, I’m just taking it easy. Feels too good.”

Terry pushes all the way in and buries his face in the juncture of Bruce’s neck. He kisses at the skin there, over his collarbone, up his neck.

Bruce has to tune out the sweet nothings Terry babbles in between as he speeds up. He’s sure Terry doesn’t intend for his positive attention to come across like scrutiny, but it does. 

“Fuck, Bruce, I’m close--”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Ha, want you to cum first.”

What a gentleman.

“Let’s reposition, then.” He can’t really reach between their bodies like this. Terry pulls out and spreads Bruce’s legs further to kneel between them. Bruce positions him so Terry’s legs bracket his hips and he can drape his across Terry’s strong thighs. Bruce sits up on his elbows to feel like he’s doing something.

“Good?” 

Bruce nods.

“How are you still so cut?” Terry wonders aloud, grasping Bruce’s hips and pushing back inside him. Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Terry starts rubbing Bruce’s clit with two fingers in time with his thrusts, and everything’s slick with lube.

“A little more light-handed, if you will. I know I’ve taught you better than that.”

Terry flushes, but softens his touch, and it’s perfect.

Bruce is sure he can cum like this.

Terry keeps pushing him open, and he sinks deeper every time in this new position.

Bruce can appreciate how strong he looks in this position. Not like he hasn’t looked before--but he can see that Terry’s really filled out, really grown into himself.

Terry sees him looking and smiles.

“What, didn’t think I could multitask?” he teases.

Bruce didn’t think he could be teased, but here they are. Terry is pushing him open, making the heat rise in his gut.

Terry pinches his clit. A few more thrusts and Bruce closes his eyes and lets himself cum. 

It seems to excite Terry further.

“Fuck, Bruce, fuck--” his voice cracks.

Bruce drops onto his back, grabs Terry around the neck, and uses his good leg to pin him in place.

(Terry seems to like certain skills he has. Bruce knows he's right, as forcing Terry into a headlock has the predicted effect.)

Bruce feels Terry spill inside him, and he seizes and shudders and _cries_ with it.

Terry’s eyelids flutter. He gasps and twitches through the aftershocks. 

“Sorry, sorry. Oh, _fuck_.”

“Don’t be.”

“OK. OK,” Terry pants. He pulls out.

“Can I--” He opens his mouth and taps his tongue, clearly struggling with words.

Bruce is speechless, too.

“Easier for me than, ha, running to get a washcloth at this point. And I think I speak for both of us: no one wants to sleep in the wet spot.”

Bruce is too tired to laugh, but his lips twitch.

“Go ahead.”

Terry pulls his legs apart and kneels, and he’s lost his urgency. His tongue soft and warm and so easy. He laps at the cum that’s spilled out first before running it up through the folds. Bruce lies back in the pillows rests a hand on the back of Terry’s head and closes his eyes. 

Bruce lets himself relax into Terry's warmth, Terry's slow touching, Terry's worshipful kisses.

He could almost fall asleep like this. That’s dangerous. 

“All good?”

“Hmm. Yes.” Terry kisses the inside of his thigh and withdraws, feeling around the comforter for his discarded clothes. 

“Did I wear you out?”

“No more than usual.”

“Is it alright if I stay here?”

“Go ahead.”

Terry takes care of everything: helps Bruce to the bathroom and back, rearranges the pillows, turns out the light. Bruce will always be far broader, far taller and far older than him, but he makes a gallant effort to hold Bruce anyways.

* * *

Terry’s started working in the gardens with purpose and vision, now that it’s summer and he doesn't have classes to occupy his time.

The morning glory goes. The honeysuckle stays.

It’s slow going, but he uncovered a few of the more accessible flower beds. He also ordered new soil with Bruce’s credit card. 

It’s being delivered, now, dumped in enormous heap to the side of the garage.

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you.”

“I’m upset that you disabled the security without asking. Don’t do that again.”

Bruce’s quick forgiveness and persistent hope remain unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the closest I've ever gotten to slow burn or even a chaptered fic and it's still, relatively, not very long. And the sex is almost one-third of it. Oh well.
> 
> Terry clearly grew up with modern consent education and Bruce deffo did not.


End file.
